Tarnished Silver
by Rustic Ink
Summary: No one can easily shrug off the past, especially Isaac.


**Tarnished Silver**

Heavy and constricting, the fear that presses on his chest makes it hard to breathe as he stares blindly at his food, fork clenched with a trembling hand. Across the table, Jim's presence is a negative force, pushing and prodding at him until he can't seem to focus on anything else. Isaac knows his father is furious. The crisp, brutal movements of his knife, the way he drinks every few seconds from the flask he's set on the table along with the glass of wine... it all indicates one thing. But worse than that, much worse, the teen can't seem to remember what it is he's done to make him so angry. Has he left the dishes out after breakfast? Not kept his room tidy enough? Nothing comes to mind, though he racks his brain desperately for an answer.

If he can only remember, if he can only start apologizing before... before anything else happens. Maybe his dad will be satisfied; maybe he won't... do anything. But _what_ did he do wrong? "Dad, I -"

His father sets his knife down with a hard clang, and Isaac flinches, the blood draining from his face. Slowly, carefully, his father picks up the flask, takes another swig, and sets it down with an equally heavy bang. In a controlled, conversational tone - that's how it _always_ starts - he says, "Well, Isaac? Are you going to tell me what you did wrong?"

Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, Isaac looks at his plate, trying to think past his terror, trying to find a way to turn the vehicle away from the inevitable crash. He just can't do it. "Dad, I don't... I don't know."

"You little shit." He flinches again, drops his fork. It falls to his plate with a clatter, but Isaac is shaking so hard he can't pick it back up. Jim must have been drinking before he came home from school. Their conversations hardly ever progress - degenerate - this rapidly. And that means... he shudders away from the thought, tries desperately to side track the brawny man across from him.

"Dad, I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry, I'll fix it, I pro -" The flask misses his face and instead hits his shoulder with a dull thunk. It doesn't hurt much; the container is almost completely empty. The wine bottle is another story. He raises his hands in time to protect his eyes, and it shatters against his forearm, little fragments of glass greedily finding the bare skin on his arms, cheeks and forehead. Instantly he's bleeding, and his father is standing over him, face twisted into something he can't even recognize as human.

"You little worthless _shit_," Jim bellows, and his one hand is clutching the back of Isaac's shirt while the other smacks him, over and over and over again. He drags Isaac out of his chair - it falls with a heavy clunk - and Isaac overbalances and drops, his shirt ripping from his father's grasp. The teen can do nothing but curl into a loose ball as Jim begins to kick him, heavy boots slamming into his side with a repetition that is as indiscriminate as it is agonizing.

"Dad - dad, please - plea - stop, dad, stop - please -" It doesn't take long before Isaac can't even beg, his ribs inflamed and his mouth occupied with gasps and muffled cries of pain. Long after the teen has given up on defending himself at all, sprawled almost senseless on the floor, his father stops. But the nightmare isn't over. It hasn't even begun.

Still screaming - although Isaac can't hear anything over the ringing in his ears - his breath coming in heavy pants, Jim grabs his son by the hair and yanks. Isaac cries out again, forced to stagger to his feet by the cruel, unrelenting pull upwards. Half dragging him, his father pulls him to the stairs, ignoring his whimpers, ignoring his pleas. Before Isaac can entirely understand what is happening, his father shoves him down.

And Isaac falls. Hard. He can feel it when his wrist snaps, trying to break the fall but, blinded by the blood and sweat drenched hair that falls hap hazardously across his eyes, he doesn't see it. Jim must not either - or maybe he does, and is just too drunk to care - because he stumbles down the stairs. His rant has simmered to a stream of humiliating comments - "God damn waste of space, lazy, stupid retard" - and again he grabs Isaac by the hair, this time having to literally drag him over to the -

"No, dad, please. Don't. No, please, dad -" The collection of words spewing from his mouth is familiar, and he knows the futility of it, but Isaac can't seem to stop. He struggles, his terror briefly overcoming the nauseating pain, but even at the best of times his father has always been stronger than him. At one point, his broken arm knocks into something, and he blacks out for a few seconds. When he's regained consciousness, they're at the - at the - "Don't, please, please, I can't, dad, I can't -" deep freezer, and his father has flung the lid open and is picking him up by his shirt.

He is flung in, and the fear is so overwhelming he can't speak, can't plead, can only cry as the lid is shut, light winking out of existence like it has never existed. For a few short seconds, dread holds him still, shivering and quiet. It doesn't last for long. The panic is a rapidly expanding pressure in his chest, and when it explodes, so does Isaac. The teen screams until his throat is raw, pounds on the lid and scratches at it until his fingertips are ragged and bleeding, and all the while the oxygen is disappearing, and he can't think, can't breathe, and he _can't breathe_ and -

Isaac jerks awake so quickly that it hurts his neck. He is drenched in sweat; it drips from his forehead, covers his face, leaves a salty, stale taste on his lips. Still influenced by the crushing terror of his nightmare, he automatically flails, trying to force the restricting blankets from his body, but someone is next to him, saying his name in a soothing mantra even as they efficiently strip the covers away. His sense of smell is the first to fully recover from sleep, and Scott's powerful scent is the thing that makes him freeze and then relax, hands coming up in a mechanical gesture to cover his face.

He's still crying. Isaac can't seem to get a hold on the tears; can only hide them and endure the storm of emotions while Scott waits, quiet and patient, next to him. Eventually, they slow to a trickle and then stop. Isaac is afraid to take his hands away, afraid to see the judgement that the moonlight streaming through the window will surely illuminate on Scott's face. The heavy clatter of rain against the roof is oppressive, bringing a tightness to his throat though he hardly knows why.

After a few minutes, the teen next to him stirs. "Isaac," Scott says, and the sympathy and understanding in his voice is almost enough to bring the tears back. "Isaac, it's okay. Everyone has nightmares, but you'll be safe here. Nobody is going to do what they did to you again. I promise."

A hollow vow, and they both know it, because the world is far too dangerous to promise such a thing. But the earnestness, the sincerity of the pledge is not eclipsed by that fact, because Isaac knows that what Scott really means is that he will be there, always. That, if something does happen, it will be because the other is incapacitated or dead, not because he's abandoned him.

_Not like Derek. _

Recoiling from the thought, Isaac takes his hands away after rubbing at his eyes, then sits up straighter, his back pressed into the headboard so hard it almost hurts, and draws his knees to his chest. He keeps his eyes away from Scott, though he can sense that the other werewolf is looking at him. Instead, Isaac casts his gaze about the guestroom. It's small, but it's not like he needs a bunch of space. With a decently sized window, there's no hint of claustrophobia so long as he keeps the shades back, and he can't help but think that this is just as good as his place at the loft.

Why does that reflection feel like he's betraying Derek? He's the one who kicked him out, who treated him just like - Isaac doesn't want to think about that.

They sit in silence for a time, and Isaac traces the contours of his palms and fingertips, reminding himself that all that's left is scars. That there's nothing more to worry about. That he's fine.

"Are you okay?"

His response is uttered with a brittle smile. "Yeah, I'm fine." He's not quite sure who he's trying to convince - Scott or himself - but in any case, neither of them are persuaded. After only a few seconds, his smile cracks and falls apart, and he puts his arms around his knees, hugging them to himself. "It's nothing."

"Dude... that didn't sound like nothing. You were screaming, and I didn't even know if I should wake you up. And you were saying - things - and..." As Scott trails off, Isaac can imagine exactly what he had been saying.

_Dad, please. _

"It's nothing," Isaac repeats, firm and a little defensive. "Just a dream I have some times." Not for the last few months, though. Not since he moved in with - _stop._

Again, silence, but Scott doesn't let it linger. He seems determined to push tonight. "Derek told me," he says carefully, "that you had those when you first got to his place. But he said they stopped."

For the first time that night, Isaac swings fully around to face Scott, eyes burning and lips lifting in the suggestion of a snarl. "And now they're back, okay? I got rid of them, Derek kicked me out and now they're back. Can you please just drop it?"

Of course Scott doesn't. He never has been able to let something go once he's got a hold of it. "Isaac, there must have been a good reason for it. Derek wouldn't just -"

_"He threw a glass at me." _The outburst is furious and agonized, and he's so upset he can hardly get the words out, but they come. They come in a torrential flood that hurts his chest. "He told me to leave, and I didn't and he threw something at me and - and I probably deserved it, only I don't know what I did, because I'm so _stupid_ and I -"

"Isaac. _Isaac._" The name has a hint of something in it, a trace of assertive command that makes Isaac feel like he's being bent into a different shape, and his jaw snaps shut, not of his own volition. He feels, abruptly, exactly like he does - did - sometimes with Derek. Like what he just did was something he had no choice about. His breath comes in heavy bursts, and Isaac is not sure if Scott felt it, felt the power in his own voice, and he doesn't know what to say.

But Scott does. "Isaac, what Derek did wasn't your fault. You're not stupid, okay? You beat me in almost all of our tests, and that's without studying." The other teen reaches out, grabs his shoulder in a firm, comforting grip. "For whatever reason, you're here. And now that you are, you don't need to worry. You don't need to be afraid. I will be here, okay?"

Swallowing hard, blinking back the moisture that has gathered in his eyes, Isaac nods stiffly. "...Kay," he whispers, and Scott remains. They sit up and speak for a while, and when the talk winds down and Isaac pulls the covers over his cold body, Scott gently touches his cheek and says, "I'll be around. Good night, Isaac." And he leaves, keeping the door of the guestroom open, and Isaac is once again alone.

But, well... maybe not entirely. Scott is next door. He's around. Slowly, Isaac's eyes drift closed, and that is the last thing he thinks before falling back into a dreamless sleep. 


End file.
